


Scream

by nevtelenwriting



Series: Move Forward [3]
Category: Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: Babies, Child Care, Gen, Loss of Parent(s), Sort of a female OC but more along the lines of a Character Interpretation, Starvation, Violent Thoughts, moments in time, references child abuse, unwilling parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3609477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevtelenwriting/pseuds/nevtelenwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Babies are not nearly as easy to handle as they seem. At the end of his rope, Curtis gets some help. </p><p>A new face enters their midst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bereweillschmidt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereweillschmidt/gifts).



> Wow real life really packs a punch in the updating of fics, huh? Here ya go, guys!
> 
> Each part of this series will be a stand alone fic, but also chapters in a series. You don't have to read them all, or even read them in order to make sense. It just might be better if you do.

_March 2015. 90 Days after Train Departure._

There is one other child still Edgar's age.

No one knew he was there because he never made a sound. His mother hid away in the rafters among the pipes, wasting away with a child barely a few months old.

They find him when the smell of decomposition becomes too much.

Guards take her body away, a slight woman that could hardly be over sixteen. No one wants to take the boy, malnourished and starved, but alive.

But no one wants to be seen as worse than a reforming baby killer, either. With Gilliam's intervention, and their community growing stronger each day, they finally agree to raise him together. Gilliam watches him, as well as a mother who lost a daughter in the first months who agrees to feed him. Gilliam asks her to take him, but she refuses. The babe’s large, brown eyes stare up at their faces, his mouth parting like he wants to cry, but doesn’t know how. He closes it every time, without a singular hiccup from him. His eyes speak enough.

Someone thinks his mother's name was Mingan, or maybe it's his name; they aren't sure. She didn't speak when she came on board, either.

Someone says it means grey wolf.

They name him Grey. He still doesn't make a sound.

***

_April 2015. 92 Days after Train Departure._

Jesus fucking _Christ_ he hates children.

Curtis hasn't slept in five days and is sincerely debating stabbing himself between the eyes and ridding himself of this agony.

He completely denounces the earlier thought that this isn't some form of divine punishment and part of him wonders how the hell the human population survived when they needed to care for young like this.

He’s honestly impressed, even if morbidly so. Edgar hasn’t stopped crying his little lungs out after only a handful of hours devoted to sleep and almost no food in his belly.

He won’t eat, he won’t sleep and he won't stop _crying_ no matter what Curtis tries. He fusses and pushes Curtis away when he tries to feed him the abhorrent blocks, then wails and whimpers when Curtis puts him in a barrel to bed. The idea of seeking out Gilliam for help crossed his mind the first forty-eight hours. Curtis's pride was kicked enough, already, so the last thing he plans on doing is crawling back to Gilliam. With Gilliam out of the question, help from elsewhere is inconceivable.  

The area is barren, a surprisingly large perimeter around Curtis evacuated in the maze of metal. He didn’t get the privilege of privacy without a fight, though. The first few days were met with filthy, withering looking that honestly? Curtis grew so accustomed to that it was the least of his worries. The ringing in his ears is up there, though. The remarks are worse than the looks, anyway.

_“C'est de sa faute. Il mérite cette, non?”_

_“Don’t even need a knife to kill him…”_

_“Stupid friggin...”_

Edgar quiets down for a solid ten seconds, whimpering and sniffling and the part of Curtis still human feels ridiculously helpless. Jesus Christ, he can’t even feed a damn child? Curtis didn't think he was that incompetent, yet here he is. 

The tiny brat reaches his arms up towards him, his hands clenching into fists a few times. Curtis nudges his arms away, and tries to feed a spoonful of protein sludge to Edgar again. His face scrunches up tight before shoving the utensil out of Curtis’s hand. Then the crying begins anew, somehow impossibly louder, and Curtis can’t take it anymore. He shouts before he remembers it won’t solve anything.

“Come on, kid! I hate this shit too, but there’s nothing else! Just eat!”

It’s a feat in itself to yell louder than the baby, which he quickly usurped with higher-pitched wailing that pierced directly into Curtis’s sinuses. Curtis grinds the palms of his hands into his temples to ease a fraction of the pounding. It wouldn’t have worked, that much is obvious, but he feels kind of better for half a second regardless.

His first impulse after that is to cover the infant’s mouth, to shake him once just to make him quiet for a _minute_ , just to clear his head and get rid of that persistent ache behind his eyes. He only needs a moment to unclench his jaw and _think_ to figure out what possibly to try next. 

But he knows the shape of his large hand over a tiny head, knows how long he has to press down until he stops kicking and squirming, stops—no.

_“ _For the love of God, shut him up already!”__

Curtis can barely hear the indistinct shouts from others, the boldest action they have against him. Curtis sort of wishes he had a family member with squealing children in his life. At least then he could have been conditioned to figure out what the hell his crying meant. Thus far? The tiny siren has four to five distinct screams but fuck all if Curtis knew what each of them meant. They all meant “unhappy” and Curtis can't figure it out because there is no one to help, because there _i_ _s_ no one anymore, there is no family and no friends to his name like everyone else on this godawful, disgusting shit-iron hell.

“What do you want? What the hell do you _want?_ ” Curtis yells again.

But Edgar cries and cries, unrelenting and sure in his distress while small arms reach up again before slamming back down. He’s blissfully unaware that there are such larger concerns than wanting food or sleep or something else that Curtis has no means of recognizing. Edgar was simply unhappy. And Curtis doesn't know where to even start.

He sighs, shoulders slumping, and says, “Come on, kid, you gotta give me a hint here.”

A solid ten seconds of Curtis staring at Edgar blankly passed before the babe stops crying. He works, in waves, so Curtis isn’t surprised when he blinks up silently at Curtis, hiccuping with gasped breaths inwards. It takes him a moment to realize the kid isn’t looking at him at all.

Curtis yells out when a hard hand smacks him upside the head, jarring him forward with a sudden sharp pain. For a few seconds he sees blackness and stars, and Curtis kind of missed stars.

Edgar blinks up at him with wide, surprised eyes, and laughs for the first time in three days, tears still clinging on his eyelashes.

“You're gonna kill that boy from sheer stupidity,” someone snaps behind him, and Curtis doesn't even bother refuting that. After rubbing at his aching head, exponentially more inflamed than before, for a few seconds he gives a helpless sigh, and adjusts Edgar on the ratty pillow he has him propped up on. Then he looks over his shoulder to who had hit him.

It's a woman, who has her hands on her hips and her dark brow arched high in incredulity.

Curtis has no clue what to say, and she’s just staring. He sighs through his nose. “He won't sleep. Aren't babies supposed to sleep?”

The woman stares at him, crosses her arms, and replies, “You're a moron.”

Curtis rolls his eyes up, and nods before looking forward again. Edgar’s lip is trembling again, his little body shaking on the precipice of another crying fest.

The woman scoffs behind him, and nudges Curtis with her foot where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. Curtis looks up where she stares down her straight nose and folded arms. Her eyes are dark, nearly black in the shadows as they study him like a hawk.

“You been feeding him?”

“He won't eat.”

“Stop forcing him, then.”

Curtis blinks in confusion, his lip curling in preparation of some retort, because really? Stop trying to feed the baby? She must be joking.

But she doesn’t blink where she stares him down, mouth a thin line whilst she waits for Curtis's response. Curtis rolls his eyes, says, “Fine,” and looks forward again. Tears well up heavy in Edgar’s eyes; any second now.

The nudge to his side is more of a kick this time and Curtis hisses in surprise, winces away and the woman snaps.

“Come on! You were barking orders like a big man a few weeks ago, where’s your big ideas now?”

“I don’t—”

“Think!”

Curtis groans a little, rubs his hands over his face, “I don’t know, I don’t know! I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what to do.”

She scoffs again, her foot tapping impatiently on the floor. “Then use that big boy killer brain. Why are _you_ so set to break apart?”

A thousand and one reasons. None of them seem relevant so Curtis clicks his teeth together, stares adamantly forward and not at her. The woman exhales sharply.

“Try holding him, jackass.”

Curtis stares at Edgar. Edgar stares back, his lip trembling faster now. Curtis gulps. He doesn’t move, plans on pretending he didn’t hear her but then Edgar starts to do that weird, half mumbling cry that precedes all his wailing, and he stretches his arms out again.

Curtis is about to make a retort that holding him won't solve the hunger or the sleep deprivation, but she beats him to the punch.

“See that?" The women points at Edgar. "That means pick me up. Were you dropped on your head or something?”

...Oh. Curtis scratches the back of his head, still staring at Edgar and swallowing hard past the dryness in his throat--ponders briefly the last time he drank anything, and reasons it mirrors when Edgar last drank--and reaches for the kid. God help him, he feels like there’s a weight in his stomach sinking the closer his hands get to those outstretched arms. Curtis picks him up slowly—ignores the faint twinge in his arm—and Edgar’s mumbling continues, but it doesn’t escalate. Slowly, Curtis brings him to his chest, and Edgar scrambles to latch on to him like simultaneous monkey and vice. Curtis fumbles, hands awkwardly under his armpits.

“Support his legs.”

Curtis frowns but does so, puts his arm underneath Edgar’s behind and he curls his feet up against Curtis’s arm, his fists clenching onto his shirt and tugging tight like he is terrified he’ll fall. Edgar buries his face into Curtis’s chest, little whimpers muffled in his shirt, but he doesn’t start crying. Curtis swallows and wraps his other arm around him in a hug, and Edgar sniffles into his chest, clinging tighter and trembling like a leaf, but eventually he quiets down, buried in Curtis’s warmth. The weight in his stomach gets heavier.

“I don’t get it,” Curtis says quietly, his brow furrowed.

“He’s more than a lump that shits and eats. He misses his _mother_.”

Curtis says nothing to that, just watches the top of Edgar’s head. Carefully, he strokes his back with his thumb to alleviate his shaking.

The woman flicks Curtis hard in the side of the head.

“Ow, hey!”

His gaze snaps back up at her sullen, irritated face and narrowed eyes, and loses the retort he had sitting on his tongue.

“Just maybe,” she began, “You should lend that kid some of the patience you expect on a silver platter. He doesn’t think no different than you. He’s just got no way of telling you yet.”

Curtis nods, mostly to himself than to her, and says, “I’ve never held a baby before.”

“Clearly.”

When Curtis gives her an annoyed glance, she still has her arms crossed, her eyes roaming over his body like she’s expecting him to pull a knife. Curtis looks away.

Edgar has quieted now, but he remains awake, still clinging to Curtis like he was going to disappear. Curtis’s chest clenched.

“Thanks,” he ends up replying quietly, and the woman scoffs.

“Don’t fucking thank me. I’m doing the kid a favor, not you.”

Curtis nods, hears her start to walk away. But then she stops, and he looks up when she turns around.

“What’s your name?”

“Curtis. Curtis Everett.”

The woman with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue sticks out her hand, and Curtis shakes it. She gives him a nod.

“Aleja. Aleja McGregor.”

Edgar burrows tighter against his chest and his breathing starts to slow towards rest. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are always greatly appreciated!


End file.
